


Shatter my soul (and I’ll let you break me)

by HelgaHeason



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: A LOT of Angst, Amenadiel is a good bro, Angst with a Happy Ending, Author Is Not Religious, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Author loves the angelic disaster siblings, Cause that's where all good fics come from, Cause twitter is super angsty, Congrats Destiel on finally becoming canon, Deckerstar - Freeform, F/M, How Do I Tag, I Ship It, I blame Twitter, Like a lot of Deckerstar, Overly excessive use of really abstract metaphors, Post-Season/Series 04, Retrospective (kinda), Season/Series 05, Songfic, Written almost entirely in self isolation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:06:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27438550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HelgaHeason/pseuds/HelgaHeason
Summary: They’re them, and they’re incredible.A retrospective look at Deckerstar’s relationship from the end of 4.10 (‘Who’s da New King of Hell’), through to midway through 5.07 (‘Our Mojo’), from their perspectives.Or: I can’t write summaries.
Relationships: Amenadiel & Linda Martin (Lucifer TV), Chloe Decker/Lucifer Morningstar
Comments: 6
Kudos: 45





	Shatter my soul (and I’ll let you break me)

**Author's Note:**

> I deliberately never properly named Lucifer or Chloe, to try and make it more impactful.  
> I’m not entirely sure if it worked, but I quite like how it turned out.
> 
> I listened to the series 4 soundtrack while writing this, and one song in particular made it into the fic as I felt it worked with it.
> 
> This fic was beta read by Ruchi on Twitter and the Carrot Cult on Discord. Thanks, guys!
> 
> And without further ado, enjoy!

The tremor in his hands translates to her cheeks, she feels them warm and tremble as he does. Something ignites within them both, and though she pleads with him, begs him to stay, he doesn’t. He leaves in a flap of snowy-white wings, and she thinks this is as close to Heaven as she’ll get. The night air is cold, refreshing, almost cleansing; it brushes against her tear-streaked face and cools her cheeks, almost telling her that some love is never meant to last. But by God, she wanted it to - and judging by the shakiness of his goodbye, the soft sweetness of his lips on hers, he did too.

She laughs to herself, alone on his balcony, the glass reflecting the city lights and the stars above. She was a fool for ever thinking he’d stay.

_Except for when he does._

**_Calling out like a flare gun_ **

There’s something off about him. It would sound weird to everyone else, but he doesn’t feel right. He looks the same, and he sounds the same, but there’s something different and completely strange in how he feels in her arms - there’s something very wrong about how it feels to kiss him. 

She feels a momentary jolt of panic flood through her - oh, God, what if he isn’t the man she knows?

What if he’s changed? 

The thought leaves a very bitter taste in her mouth, and she chokes back a sob into his shoulder, disguising it as a cough; the product of a sore throat caused by shedding _too. Many. Tears._ over this suave, elegant bastard that she’s somehow fallen in love with.

God, if he’s changed-

No. She can’t think like that. Change is a good thing. People change all the time, growing and becoming better. God knows he’d changed so much in the time he’d known her; becoming a better man, a better person, slowly redeeming himself and clawing back from the depths of Hell - freakish dragon wings and all.

If this is who he is now, she must bear the pain and soldier on. She’d go to Hell and back for him; he’s just done the same for her. She buries herself a little further into his shoulder, holding on, and she can feel him smile into her shoulder - which again feels off, but she can’t see it, and chooses to ignore it.

**_Drifting on an empty sea_ **

Something erupts in her chest. Some form of hope shatters; some other form of hope rebuilds itself.

_Fear._

Since when could he sense and manipulate fear? He’s always been able to sense desire, bring those dirty little secrets out, but fear is new. Fear is almost the exact opposite of desire; although she knows they can both make monsters of everyone. Those who cannot resist the call of their desires, and those who are too afraid of what could be - like how everyone reacted to Charlie’s existence, despite his innate innocence.

Wait.

Fear.

Fear, not desire. Since when…? He’s always asked what people desire - never what they fear.

That jolt of panic from their reunion resurfaces, and it increases in intensity.

This isn’t the same man at all, and she shivers. She thinks of him then, on the balcony, how he shivered when her tears touched his thumbs; how he shivered out of pure fear and gnawing agony that he’d hurt her. In hurting her, he’d hurt himself. He wasn’t the evil everyone made him out to be. In moments like those, the light in him - dullened with pain and anguish - glowed bright within his chest, like all those stars he made; like she knew he could be.

Fear isn’t him.

Fear is someone else.

Not him. Never him.

**_Feeling like a lonely one_ **

Her internal sigh of relief is immense as he pulls his hand away to reveal no blood, no broken skin; perfectly clean, pale palms - and an odd trembling if she looked closely. She knew it wasn’t him. It couldn’t be him. He’d never randomly decide to hook up with Maze after everything, after admitting that what he felt for her was something that terrified him beyond belief; that that something made him want to be better.

Truth be told - oh, the irony - she knew something was off about him from the start.

She just couldn’t pinpoint what.

And now she could. The man before her was not her beautiful, broken, doe-eyed Devil. It was his twin brother, broken physically as opposed to mentally; the angel who had caused her Devil’s Fall and condemned him to a lifetime of damnation. Oh, yes, she’d read the books.

This wasn’t her Devil. This was Michael, another archangel - the Sword (of God). Now that she truly looked, truly _saw_ this new angel, she saw what she couldn’t see before. His eyes were the same brown, but dull and lifeless. Her Devil’s eyes were like open books, or windows to his wounded soul; everything was open and in plain sight. Michael’s were the opposite. Cold, lonely, lifeless. Was this what his life was like?

No. She couldn’t take pity on him. She was the better woman here, but Michael didn’t deserve her sympathies.

A small flurry of bullets struck the archangel’s chest, and after a few furious, angry statements, he fled - and left behind a bombshell that she wasn’t sure if she ever wanted to deal with. The words echoed in her head like those seagulls from _Finding Nemo_ , and she wondered if he felt like that at times when people hit on her. The real him, that was, not his brother.

Did he long for her? Was any of it real? 

Her eyes were hot and heavy, her head hurt, and her cheeks were wet again.

She held the bullet on her neck with everything she had, and gazed down. Hopefully he’d hear her. 

**_I wanna know you’re listening_ **

He was back. He was truly back. He’d said he couldn’t stay for long, but she was so relieved to see his face - his beautiful, pained face - and those ever-emotional eyes, that she didn’t really care how short it was for. She tugged him into her, and he went willingly, their hearts thudding against eachother. Hers steady, a slight hitch in it; his wild and unsteady - untameable, like him. Relief flooded through him, and she steadied him, holding on tightly.

But of course, no good thing lasts forever.

She brought up the information Michael had left her with as a parting gift, and his - her Devil’s - entire face had fallen. He was silent for a moment, before confirming what his brother had told her, and she felt her heart shatter.

None of it had been real. None of it had been her choice.

She was sure that he was just as much of a puppet as her, only semi-conscious in this strange scenario; his Father’s puppet, as he always had been. _So much for free will_ , she thought, willing her tears back so her daughter wouldn’t see her cry. She couldn’t explain this. Neither could he. Both were at a complete loss of what this all was, and her only solace was that she’d been able to instill some sort of angry fear in Michael for him to have fled like that; for him to have retaliated at his brother like that.

Her entire body trembles, freezing when it realises, and she nearly cries - but she refuses to give in. She refuses to give his Father the satisfaction. She can’t weep over the love she thought she had; she can’t play into his play any more. 

When he returns later, bloodied and in himself trembling with excess adrenaline and terror, she refuses to speak. She can’t. Nothing would make sense. She was made for him, he had kept it from her. Her Devil, the man who never lies - except for when he omits things.

So he leaves, quietly, and she breaks down into her pillow.

**_If I’m talking to myself, I’m gonna find somebody else_ **

Amenadiel seems just as clueless. Usually so sure of himself, this time he is stunned, dumbstruck; he has no idea what to say or do. He has no idea how to make it better, what he can say to take away her pain. It’s not like his brother would be of much help here, but he usually provided comfort by just being there. Now the thought of his presence makes her feel slightly ill. Amenadiel can only say what he knows - which is that neither he or his brother have any idea as to what this means for her (and them).

She’s never seen Amenadiel look so confused.

She wonders, despite the nausea unfurling slowly in her stomach, if that’s how her Devil feels. Confused, alone - maybe even scared? He certainly looked quite scared when she’d overheard Amenadiel; fear flashing through his big brown doe eyes and sending a jolt of fear down her own spine. When questioned, he’d looked like a kicked puppy, eyes pleading; imploring her to understand as opposed to being angry. It wasn’t something he had chosen to happen - but he’d never complained. Of course he wouldn’t. 

Wait.

He’d said he’d found out from his mother - _the Goddess of All Creation, the Mother of all Angels_ , she realises with a painfully sharp inhale that makes even Amenadiel look concerned - and he’d probably panicked as he usually does… Was that when he suddenly disappeared and came back married? He’d said he’d thought of it as a curse, and a gift later. But what of this could possibly inconvenience him?

Oh.

The thought that his feelings weren’t real. That he was supposed to feel that way.

How ironic, because in that moment, that was exactly how she felt.

Did that mean that some part of her was free to feel as she liked, if he’d come to think of it as a gift? He wasn’t one to needlessly - or ever, really - take advantage of people. Everything he’d ever done, bar all the temptations, was entirely consensual on both sides. Even if whatever was between them was extremely new for him, he’d never take advantage of her… Right?

He never had before.

But then again, he’d (perhaps unintentionally) removed her choice in not telling her.

She looked over at Amenadiel, who’d become engrossed in some of the files about Destiny Page, and she sighed. Thinking about it and driving her mind in circles wasn’t going to do her any good. All she had to do was avoid him until she was ready to talk, until she knew what it was she had to say; be that give it a chance or cut it off for good.

It sounded easier said than done, and if she was being honest, it probably was.

**_Tell me, can you hear me?_ **

Amenadiel catches her after Hank is taken away by the LAPD, and he begins to explain a few things that he thinks he may have worked out. He explains that he thinks he knows why Sister Francine was so drawn to him; why she came to the precinct to ask for help, why she kissed him. He explains that he thinks he knows why everyone is so drawn to his brother; why his brother attracts everyone to him, saints as well as sinners. He explains that he thinks that it’s part of their nature, part of their gift; to reflect their mojos back at people, or to be a conduit of reflection. 

He thinks that’s why Sister Francine was drawn to him. Because he reflects God’s love back at her, because she felt it more than ever when around him - because he has almost become a secondary God in how much he has come to love his Father’s creations.

He thinks that’s why his brother appeals to so many people, brings them to him, attracts them; because he reflects their desires back at them - and honestly, who wouldn’t want to be with their greatest desire? It’s a bit of a strange thought, that some people might see their lust for murder reflected back at them and fall in love with that, but her Devil stopped his ‘slutty’ ( _thanks, ‘Remy’_ , she thinks) habits a while ago after Eve left.

But she’s so confused. What does this have to do with her? With him?

What does his reflecting the innermost desires of every human soul back at them have to do with any of this?

Oh.

Everyone merely sees him as their greatest desire. But she doesn’t. She never has. She’s only ever seen him for who he is, who he was, who he _could be_ , who he _will_ be. She’s seen his roughest edges and felt his softest touches; reserved for her and her only, their own little name plaques - bearing her name, of course - engraved forever into his mind. She’s seen things that would and have made lesser (wo)men scream, things that torture memories and fracture sanity. Things that shatter belief and border faith; things that have been lost to eons in Hell, things that have been revived by her merely being his friend.

And that’s when it clicks.

Amenadiel grins at her, sunny and bright as the dawn.

Everything she feared was manipulation, everything she feared wasn’t her choice - she was wrong. Everything could not have been more real; not even if God himself had commanded it be so. And that was when she realised - they have always been the one thing in eachothers’ lives that was real, through all the insanity of celestial craziness and corrupt cops. 

Amenadiel’s watchful smile is comforting, and genuine.

She exhales almost giddily, something beautiful blooming in her chest, her heart beating like the wings of a freed bird; like they’ve never been torn apart by cruel circumstance or reckless decisions.

Because… That’s exactly what they are.

Unbowed, unbroken. Unyielding, unrelenting; unforgivingly eachother’s.

And then, she finds herself asking about his vulnerability. Amenadiel just smiles, and launches into an explanation of another theory. He’s very handsome too, much like his white-winged brother - and her Devil is also loving, like Amenadiel; all harsh edges, jagged and uneven, but at the very centre, hidden amongst a stone fortress, is a heart of pure gold. And maybe, she thinks, that’s worth all this pain.

**_I need you to hear me_ **

She finds him at his penthouse, playing angstily as usual, and just watches for a few moments. He’s so beautiful, even when in pain and playing to the melody of his bleeding heart. Maybe he’s even more beautiful like this, his emotions clear, no guards up; the most vulnerable he can be. And oh, how that stings her heart. Vulnerable only to her, making himself that way, sacrificing his immortality to stay by her side. In a way, shedding part of himself, just so that he can stay with her. And doesn’t that just burn her inside?

She makes her presence known, and as expected, he reacts like a deer in headlights; caught halfway between running and freezing entirely, only this time he has nowhere to run to. She doubts he has the heart to run any more. So he half-heartedly freezes instead, tensing, but she can still see him tremble. He’s never been a good liar - because he’s never lied at all. 

She tells him why she’s there; she explains Amenadiel’s theory, and she herself tenses a little to see his reaction. It isn’t much, merely confirming it, noticing her tears and panicking a little - but it’s more than enough for her. She decides, in that moment, in a moment of pure insanity, that this is who she’ll stay with. That she’ll give this - them - a fighting chance, that she’ll fight for what it is between them. And if it doesn’t work out, she’ll nurse her heart after sobbing, argue with Maze a few times, and she’ll try again.

As she has always tried to.

They both lean in, shyly, nervously; like they’ve never done this before, like it’s a first - and in a way, it is. In a way, it is a first, for both of them. Her mind races, but everything stops when his lips find hers, after what feels like forever; everything calms, and she knows the storm is yet to come. Despite that, she’s willing to treasure every moment with him, including this one.

She breaks away from him, and he moves away a little, like a wounded animal - before something in them breaks, and they’re back on eachothers’ lips, seeking everything the other can give, giving the other everything they can take. The synchronisation is beautiful, their hearts beating in unison; she’s never felt more alive than in the moments when she’s felt like this. Euphoric, desperate, longing, and ecstatic all at once. He’s different. He’s always different.

And when she opens her lips to him, to more, opening her heart to this new possibility, she feels the soft press of his exploratory tongue; she welcomes the intrusion like she’s welcomed him so many times before. Into her mouth, into her home, into her heart. This is her Devil, this is who she’ll fight to keep.

**_Screaming out so loud_ **

He can’t figure her out. He can’t figure himself out. Was this how she felt when she finally found out about her miracle status - alone, confused, scared? He knows his emotions are volatile, he knows she makes him vulnerable, and now he knows why. Sort of. He knows that subconsciously he’s _choosing_ to lay himself bare; strip himself of his defences - and only around her. Always her. In a way, it’s like he’s her eternal prisoner; doomed to be weak and helpless against attack when around her, but he will gladly endure the pain. Every scar he earns by her side, he wears without regret. There’s a particular anguish in his longing, a petulant desperation that he’s trying his best to stave off - but he desires, truly, her touch again, her lips, her kiss that’s all tongue and teeth; wild, frantic, and something primally carnal. He wonders if he’s the same.

It’s a funny thing to be thinking when the guy sat opposite him goes by the moniker ‘DJ Karnal’, and he nearly rolls his eyes at the universe’s sense of timing. Just another byproduct of his Father’s meddling, or is it truly just coincidence? He doesn’t suppose he’ll ever know. He toys with the idea of seducing this ludicrously boring man, but dismisses the thought almost shamefully. He’s not like that anymore, and Dad help him if he ever slips.

Jed’s droning on about something. Being mysterious. Well, he doesn’t need to do that - he’s Lucifer bloody Morningstar, everything about him is a mystery. Including, but not limited to, whether he actually wears underwear at fancy events. Why would he need to act mysterious? Doesn’t he already have her attention?

Her heartbeat still thrums against his, the ghost of her lips still linger against his; his Heavenly gift being of desire has never been so helpful, because now, he can _feel_ it. A purely primal, instinctive, carnal desire. The simplicity of humans is something quite extraordinary in times like these. 

Jed’s still droning on about being mysterious, and - hang on. 

She got bored after she’d solved Jed’s mystery?

She got bored when she’d figured out who Jed was?

But… Why?

Isn’t that the point of knowing someone - to, well, _know_ them? All ugly red scarred flesh, spiked dragon wings, and extreme self-hatred and everything? Isn’t that… Isn’t that what humans spend their entire lives searching for - the knowledge of something, somewhere; of _someone_? And she’s more human than most, despite being the product of Heavenly intervention ( _thanks, Brother_ , he thinks), so surely… Surely, among everything, among her hardened exterior and motherly instincts… Surely she too is looking for the same - that odd sort of connection with another person that can only be described as -

Oh, shit.

Maybe this bore of an ex was right.

He’d have to up his game.

After all, she loves a mystery, doesn’t she?

**_But my words don’t make a sound_ **

Being mysterious had backfired horribly. She probably thought he was being incredibly selfish, narcissistic and very unlike who he’d grown to become - and if he was being honest with _himself_ , he thought so too. He’d tried to make it so that she wouldn’t grow tired of him; bored of his truly boring underlayers, tired of not having the playful playboy around that she’d fallen in love with and instead being burdened with all of his minor and major issues. But in doing that, he’d neglected the one thing that mattered to him most - her. He hadn’t stopped to think about what she may gain or lose from this, he hadn’t stopped to think how it would affect her.

And that was something he was guilty for. It burned in his chest, it seared its way through his veins; like everything he’d ever felt guilty for when she’d been involved, it would haunt him for far too long. It could ghost him when he tried to speak about it, it would make the memories a little hazy and unclear. And like all those other times, he would close it off, trap it in its own little box, and refuse to talk about it.

Amenadiel just stared pityingly at his younger brother. He was really like a puppy, dejected and lonely, confused and wondering where he’d gone wrong. He may have unwittingly let himself be manipulated, but it didn’t mean he deserved it. Far from it. But Amenadiel wasn’t entirely sure what he was supposed to do. He’d never really been in this situation before, with a sexually frustrated and emotionally confused younger brother - or, at least, not in this context. He’d dealt with that sort of thing before, but not when there was actually something or someone meaningful behind all this emotional turmoil.

Dan was just as confused. His friend looked so sad, so strangely innocent; his big brown eyes large and doe-like, terrified and confused. For someone who was so suave and charming all the time, he sure was unsure of himself. Dan didn’t think he knew what he wanted half the time, and was just sort of existing most days; halfway between nail-bitingly anxious depression and a weirdly euphoric joy, simply because people liked him. What on earth had happened in his life for him to have _this_ sort of response to… Well, people in general? What had this poor doe-eyed consultant been through?

Amenadiel finally broke the silence after Dan had left, informing his brother that he’d unwittingly let himself be manipulated - and oh, _God_ , how small his brother had made himself look. He’d drawn back in on himself in his confusion, frightened that he’d messed up again; scared of whatever the outcome of this may be, terrified that she may hate him for this. Amenadiel sighed, and brought the attention back to the screaming Nephilim in his arms - who looked exactly as Amenadiel knew his brother felt on the inside - and after a few tense moments of the Devil face emerging out of pure anger, Charlie stopped crying; his cries reduced to mere snuffles, small and like he was truly having to fight to keep crying.

His brother looked shocked, and Amenadiel felt it - but then he smiled. This was the miracle of children, what people always said was so pure about them. Children have no prejudice, it is given to them by their parents. Charlie didn’t know the myths and legends behind the Devil, everything that said he was pure evil; he wasn’t scared of the charred, reddened flesh that had resulted from Samael breaching Hell’s atmospheric boundaries, because he wasn’t aware that it had ever happened. This was the joy of children, and Amenadiel’s smile was bright. He turned back to his brother, making him do it again - then promptly told him to stop when Dan arrived.

When Dan left later, Amenadiel looked over at his brother, who finally looked somewhat peaceful. He knew what he needed to do, and he was going to do his best to make everything better; he knew that he was going to leave it all down to her, as he always had, but he was going to make sure he’d said everything he had to first.

_How he’s grown_ , Amenadiel thought with a smile.

**_Tell me, can you hear me?_ **

He’s there at his penthouse, because of course he is. Where else would he be? He’s there, all of him, leaving no trace of any part of himself behind; a far cry from him closing himself off entirely. He hurriedly welcomes her inside, announcing his intentions of a visitation to her (having misplaced his phone, he meant to visit), and moves to the side to let her in. She steps into his space, into his home, and undoubtedly into his heart too. And he lets her. A few awkward moments pass of them simply gathering their thoughts, getting words ready to say, and they apologise in unison; all awkward tension shatters and a new kind of tension builds instead. He recognises it first - it’s sexual, needy and primal; desire in its rawest form. He apologises first too, albeit a bit of a stunted apology due to his nervous state, but it’s genuine, and she apologises in turn. 

And when all is said and done, they say their goodbyes for the night.

Except, both of them know that the other won’t be leaving tonight. Not this night.

He moves at the same time she does, their lips crashing together; the desire he can practically smell is evident and terrified. It’s extremely new, and at the same time, achingly familiar. She finds herself on his piano, trapped by his strong arms, and strangely soft lips, and pure desire. She feels his tongue again, no longer exploratory but instead desperate, and she gasps; this is _entirely_ new, and it scares her. 

The fervour in this one simple kiss is equivalent to a thousand suns; it’s intoxicating, addicting, breathless, and she can’t keep up. He’s always had more stamina, more prowess, and now she truly feels it; the strength he has in spades, the power running through his veins like wild horses, poured into this one kiss - and that might be the most dizzying thing of all. That is, until she remembers that unlike the times they’ve shared these fleeting moments and he’s fled, looking like a deer in headlights - _he chose to stay_. She pulls back to check her phone, looking up at him as she does so, and there’s an immense amount of fear in his eyes; none more so than the fear that she’ll leave. She nearly laughs at that - the thought of the Devil, terrified out of his mind that she’ll leave again, is rather funny - but she can’t bring herself to, not in this moment.

She pulls him back to her, feeling his lips part in surprise as they touch hers, and her back hits the wall with a muted ‘thud’, her head guarded by his hand. 

Ever the gentleman.

It becomes all the more emotional on his part, and she can feel how he’s slowly letting himself go, surrendering bit by bit to his own emotions. He never gives in to his own carnal desires, focused solely on caring for hers, but it’s the emotional surrender that really counts here. Lucifer Morningstar, the Devil, so emotionally constipated that he doesn’t understand what he wants half the time, letting go and giving in to his more loving instincts; it’s a beautiful sight, and she’s glad he’s never cared about the myths. Father Kinley would have a field day if he ever found out about this. She gazes up at him as he holds out his hand, trembling violently, fear and desire coursing through him. Her consent, freely given, is held in his hand. 

_And she didn’t even have to sell her soul_ , she thinks, but she can’t bring herself to laugh. Not right now.

He lies bare beneath her, more than happy to relinquish his control; completely at her mercy, as he always has been. There’s a primal lust in his eyes, but he doesn’t act on it, instead letting her do as she pleases. Her kiss is soft, hiding layers of desire and want; he recognises it, and she recognises his behaviour for what it is - total submission. It sends a small shiver down her spine, and only after she traces her hands down his chest and abdomen does he make any move. It’s a graceful flip, landing her where he had been moments prior, and she lets out a small, breathy whimper. The kiss he gives her is both reverent and all kinds of unholy. 

And when his lips travel down to somewhere sinful, when he dips down, when she sinks into his every touch, she just loses herself in this feeling; she loses herself in loving him.

**_Is anybody listening?_ **

He wakes first, a sudden jolt in his neck from a nerve firing wrong, a twitch in his back from his hidden wings. He slowly drags himself to his elbows, looking over at her, fast asleep and happy. He smiles, feeling oddly at peace for once. She wakes not long after, eyes brilliantly clear and hair almost golden in the light. It reminds him of Gabriel’s - his beautiful golden hair, eyes and wings - and he suppresses that smile. How fitting for her to look like an angel. She _is_ a miracle, after all. About as close to Heaven as he can likely ever get. She smiles, and his own face breaks into a smile too. It’s startling how easily that comes, how he barely has to react. He brings up his years-old joke after wishing her a good morning, and basks in her snorting laughter when she remembers.

He kisses her, soft and unhurried, achingly gentle. It’s different to last night. Last night was desperate, frantic, a dam breaking after so many years of trying to hold the flood in gates barely strong enough; this is warm, gentle, and sweet. A kind of sweet that nobody would ever expect from the literal Devil, but she knows better than the legends. He’s soft, gentle, loving and kind. He’s all the legends say he isn’t. Perhaps he was one of the kindest of his siblings, once upon a time. It wouldn’t surprise her. She decides to be the bold one - as if staying last night despite the pounding fear of him fleeing, and holding him pinned under her wasn’t bold enough - and pulls herself up, sitting on him, lips inches from his; his fringe fluffy and falling into his face.

Something curls around his chest, like a cat’s tail or his own wings. _Once more, with feeling?_ She moves away slightly, although he doesn’t miss the wriggle in her hips. _Perhaps not._ But he’s alright with that. When before he would’ve simply sought out this desire again, catching it, trapping it beneath strong arms and unusually soft lips, this time he doesn’t; he just lets it go, lets it flutter away, opening its wings and flying off. Perhaps all the wing-related imagery in his head is from the odd pressure against his back, right where his wings are; it’s like they’re demanding to be released, wanting to be set free. They almost overshadow him sometimes, and damn it they can be inconvenient at times, so he fights back against the pressure and feels it recede slowly; guiltily, painfully, almost shamefully, sheepishly. It reminds him that they’re just as alive as he is, but he can’t do anything about the weird ache while she’s literally sat on top of him. Maybe later.

But now… She’s sat on him. Literally on top of him. For all the weird and wonderful things he’s done in his life, having someone like this on top of him with no sexual intentions - to be there for the sake of being there, just because he’s comfortable and they enjoy his company - is a first. Then again, _she_ is a first. There’s something wild and very much alive in the back of his mind, crowing in joy; the more warrior-like, primitive aspects of himself, the remnants of Samael - and it’s _happy_. _He_ is happy. He basks in this newfound happiness, pure, alive and joyful, and he can tell she does too. It’s odd, and quite terrifying, how easily the happiness comes to him now; his face aches from smiling, his back aches from his wings threatening to make their grand appearance, and his heart aches for what he’s been missing for so, so long. Not since the simpler days of the Silver City has he felt like this - but that never felt as ecstatic as this. 

That was muted, somewhat dull, and simple. Happiness in the happiness of his siblings, in the contentment of fulfilling their Heavenly duties; in obeying their Father’s orders.

But this? This is completely different. Wildly unpredictable, entirely new, and it makes him feel so many different things; ecstatic, euphoric, powerful, invincible… _Alive_.

It makes him feel more alive than he’s ever felt, this strange new happiness. It makes him feel like there’s a point to all this, to all his Father’s meddling, to all the pain he’s endured and suffered. 

He thinks he knows what this feeling is - he has an idea, a suspicion. But confronting it is another type of fear; one he isn’t willing to face today.

So he doesn’t.

His entire body feels compelled to answer her when she asks him what he desires - and so he does, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. He’s a little shocked that she managed to get his truth out of him - desire is _his_ thing, damn it - but then her lips are on his. It lasts less than a second, but it’s a sweet enough distraction to prevent him from thinking about it for a few moments.

She jumps off him in a way akin to a puma, or perhaps an overeager kitten, and lands with a ‘flumpf’ against the golden sheets. She knows he’s reacting completely differently to her advances, to his own desires, than he usually does - and she thinks she’s getting through to him at long last. Those massive wrought-iron walls he’s erected are finally being breached somewhat, slowly and carefully.

And she thinks there’s something beautiful in that.

**_Is anybody listening?_ **

Then, later on, when he freaks out over losing his mojo, she can’t find it in herself to be angry at him.

Screw that, she thinks. This is progress. He’s letting her in.

It isn’t much, not in the grand scheme of things…

… But it’s progress.

**Author's Note:**

> The song used was ‘Can You Hear Me’, by UNSECRET, and you can listen to it here:  
> [UNSECRET - Can You Hear Me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uaroJPCJsHc&list=PLDisKgcnAC4R5rj3PFhBHp7Xyw1FM0Kcl&index=40)
> 
> This fic took too damn long to write, but I’m really proud of how it turned out.  
> It’s my longest oneshot yet, and by far the one with the most metaphors.  
> God, adding all the text commands to this was painful.
> 
> I am very sorry for the trainwreck that is the tags.
> 
> I am pan-ace, and therefore reading / writing smut makes me uncomfortable - I just hope I did the beautiful Deckerstar sex scene justice!
> 
> All but one of the segments (Lucifer talking to Dan and Amenadiel at the end of 5.06, ‘Blueballz’) were written in self-isolation, so if you see me self-projecting or losing my sanity, no you don’t 💜
> 
> If you’ve made it this far, thank you so much for reading!
> 
> \- - -
> 
> I’m on Twitter and I take fic commissions, DM me here:  
> [Helga Heason](https://twitter.com/HelgaHeason)
> 
> Help support my work by buying me a coffee here:  
> [Helga Heason Ko-Fi](https://ko-fi.com/helgaheason)


End file.
